Popular
by Indie Tangles
Summary: They do their jazz hands at the end, smiling strangely. "Rach," Mike whispers from behind her, "they, like, talked through the whole song." "I know," she said around a tight smile, "but the show must go on." // Puckleberry and Hummery.
1. two can keep a secret

**More Rachel / Kurt being BFFs. :) Puckleberry coming soon. Don't own, or this would be canon, duh.**

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"There's really only … one boy I want to impress."

Rachel Berry's small face was flushed with excitement or embarrassment, or the anticipation of either, like he might shoot her down. Had she never had a girlfriend before?

"I can keep a secret," he assured her, the gossip center of his brain lighting up like a tacky Christmas tree.

"I just … I want someone to notice me." She reiterates, still looking caught between an over-eager puppy and one terrified of getting swatted with a newspaper.

He's already pulled the eyebrows off of her face. He's not sure how much more damage he can do. He locks his lips in an overdramatic gesture, but doesn't throw out the key. Yet. It could be really juicy, okay?

"Puck. I um. Want him to see me. Really see me."

Kurt lets out a long breath that turns into a laugh, tension he didn't realize he had seeping out of his muscles. "Well, Rachel Berry," he says, going for his bag and pulling out the expensive can of mouse, because desperate times call for desperate measures, "it's good to have goals."

Her face starts to fall, and he has to clarify. "No, don't pout; it's a waste of your new brows. It's also good to have goals in the presence of a miracle worker." He ends with a flourish at himself, and in an un-Kurt moment of bodily awkwardness accidentally pokes himself in the eye with the tip of the mouse.

"Frig!" he yelps and then when he can finally get his eye open and wipes away the water (because his eyes were _watering, _he was absolutely not _crying_) out if it, he can see that Rachel Berry is sitting in her weird little midget chair, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Are you okay?" she asks finally, and it's belated, because it always takes Berry a long time to figure out the socially acceptable thing to do, and then she sends the proposal away to the Award Winning center in her brain to see if it matches up with her goals.

He's about to say _yes, _but then she actually laughs. "That's it," he says instead, "you're getting a lesbian haircut."

Her hand curls around the ends of her hair, hanging against her shoulder. Maybe she can't tell that he's joking, or maybe she's joking back. She's not very good at it, but he smiles anyways.

"Puck, huh?" he mutters to himself, eyeing her in a new light. Suddenly, he sees her makeover going in a whole new direction. "You guys would have, like, the cutest shipping name ever."

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**LOL EXCITED. :) You should, like, review even if you just say hi. :) I'M GOING TO FAIL MY PSYCH FINAL FOR YOU, FANDOM. :D**


	2. floor length? not acceptable

**More Kurt Rachel brohood. Sorry, no Puck yet. Thank you everyone for reviewing. I really appreciate it. :)**

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"Sweatheart," Kurt said, trying to stay patient while he flicked through Rachel Berry's closet. (Rarely did he think of her as Just Rachel. She was just one of those people. Epic, like Tommy Ryerson in the seventh grade, who in his memory was still so James-Bond-Smoking that he could never be _Tommy_ again.) "_Where _is your little black dress?"

And Rachel Berry just blinked at him like he wasn't speaking English. "I own plenty of black dresses, Kurt, but I don't think any of them are very practical for choreography purposes."

"These, you mean?" Kurt asked, gesturing to the far left of her closet. He couldn't even bring himself to look at them.

"Yes, those," she huffed, "you don't see any other sections of my closet devoted to black dresses, do you?"

And of course, it was a stupid question, because she was _Rachel Berry, _and her closet was sort of _clearly labeled, _but he had held the tiniest shred of hope. "Most of these are choir dresses," he explained, enunciating clearly because when it came to fashion, clearly she was like a very slow child, and he'd just have to explain it to her in the simplest terms possible. Possibly in telegraphic speech.

"Floor length?" He pointed. "Not okay."

"Long sleeves?" He tugged at the wrist of one. "Also not okay."

Rachel Berry was looking at him like she'd just killed his puppy, but then got that same defiant look she usually got after a slushy facial. Kurt figured it was a coping technique. "They're for performing. And I'll have you know that I took second in the eight grade in the _long sleeved abomination._"

Kurt lifted his hands, smirking slightly. "Your words, not mine, babydoll."

Rachel Berry blushed deeply. "It was coming, I'm pretty sure. So it was a preemptive strike."

Kurt gave her a once over; Rachel Berry sitting against the backdrop of her hideous predigested cotton candy bedroom, and even with perfect posture, the line of her shoulders looked miserable. And she said things like _pre emptive strike _like they were in some kind of war.

Apparently, his usual method of friendship (which was, of course, relentless sarcasm) was useless here. He tried to use his softest voice. "Not everything is a battlefield, Rachel Berry. I'm just teasing and I'm here to _help._"

"But—"

"Okay, no, I'm not teasing about the dresses, because seriously? I do_ not_ understand how anyone could approve of you purchasing any of them."

"Just because I've found it prudent in the past not to distract from my talent with _hairography _when I perform," she insisted, "doesn't mean they aren't fully functional."

Kurt raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Dressing like someone from this century isn't a distraction, Berry."

And then Rachel swallowed audibly at the unholy gleam in his eye. "Which is why we're going shopping for something awesome. Like, right this instant."

"I will not deign to objectify my body to campaign for friendship I couldn't have achieved with my charisma and personality."

"You're not a _politician_. You are not campaigning for anything."

She raised an eyebrow of her own in response. For a moment he was incredibly impressed with himself, because no one could argue that is wasn't a _fantastic _eyebrow. "Isn't that exactly what this is about?"

"No, Rachel Berry," he explained, "what we're doing is getting you to look a little hotter—" at her glare he rephrased, backtracking, "I meant, a little more _approachable, _approachable!"

"Thinking of it in colloquialisms fails to change anything," she said, glaring, because Rachel Berry couldn't ever shorten anything, even when her monologues could be turned into a _so what?_

"You didn't let me get to the point," Kurt accused. "_Then,_" he said, like he had an ace-in-the-hole. "When you find yourself approached, you get the opportunity, you can demonstrate your, um, sparkling personality, and… verbosity." He was not calling Rachel Berry's word vomit _charisma_. He drew the line at outright lying.

Berry's face lit up. "Like a _sneak_ _attack_! Sometimes, the poster of a Broadway production is almost _deceitful _in it's less-than-accurate depiction of the show as a whole, but it draws people in, and then they fall in love anyways, so the ends justified the means and –"

He was quite amused with the connection she had made, and yes, it was sort of accurate, if she was able to tone down the crazy after someone was willing to give her the time of day, but he didn't have time to just sit around. If he'd ever met a fashion _emergency, _it was her, and seriously, makeovers were like crack to Kurt. He was so close to a fix he could taste it. "—and previews show the funniest parts of the movie, yes yes. A sneak attack. You ready to go?"

He twisted his keychain around his finger, and her face got so determined he almost laughed, except, after the eyebrows ("the first time _always_ hurts," he'd assured her, and snickered at his own double entendre. She stared at him blankly.) he thought she might burst into tears.

"I'll call my dads on the way," she said, turning off her desk lamp.

Kurt grinned in the dark.


	3. and it's kind of slutty, like you like

**Hey guys. Thank for all of your beautiful reviews. :) Made me happy this weekend. Anyways, sorry if my tenses skip. I'm terrible at that. **

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"Hey beautiful."

"No, no, I'm shopping with Rachel."

"Yes, _Rachel Berry, _do we know another Rachel?"

Rachel Berry could only hear half of Kurt's phone conversation, straining to hear the other voice from his passenger seat with no avail. She'd been sort of embarrassed to discover that she literally had to jump into his Navigator until she watched from her seat as he scrabbled in.

When he hung up, she was staring at him. "Why do you guys _do _that?"

"Do what?"

_"Rachel Berry _me." The way she said her own name like a verb made Kurt laugh.

"You mean, why do we call you by your full name?"

She nodded in response which Kurt probably couldn't see, on account of how he was devoting his full attention to the road. Probably.

"You just seem like the full name type," he explained, and before she could launch into a speech about how she was _torn by that assessment, because obviously she would be hearing her full name on a daily basis from the paparazzi and of course on magazine covers, but then of course, the mark of a real star is to be recognized by a single monkier -- Cher! Madonna! Prince! -- and if I can't even get my sophomore class to remember my name... _(Seriously, the second she opened her mouth, he heard the whole speech in his head. Clearly she didn't need to start that nonsense.) he cut her off with a "So, Puck, huh?"

Her mouth snapped closed at the speed of fiddled with the hem of her skirt, and then smoothed it over her lap. "Um. Well. Did I say that?"

He stared at her until his light turned green. "Unless that was a dream, and considering your hideous bedroom, it would have been a nightmare."

Rachel was still staring at her lap.

"He's nothing to be ashamed of; Noah Puckerman is a fine specimen of human musculature," Kurt told her, laughing. "It's just too bad about his, you know, personality."

"I don't actually know," Rachel says, voice gone funny. "It's like, he's terrible, and used to throw corn syrup in my eyes and I'd be lying if I said I didn't still keep a spare outfit in my locker just in case. But. There's something about him."

"Is it his Jewhood?" Kurt asked, wryly.

Rachel scoffed. "If I was just interested in him because of his _ethnic background _I would have gone after Creeper Israel a long time ago."

"No one will ever go after Creeper Israel," Kurt explained sagely. He was usually optimistic about other people's prospects after a life of growing up gay in a small town, lost in middle America, (it was one of Mercedes' favorite insults to point someone out and inform him that "_that guy's going to have to become a rapist - he'll never get any, otherwise._" and usually it was Kurt's job to tell her there was someone for everyone. Except maybe, he'd said once, Rachel Berry. Looking back, he was kind of ashamed.) but his sexuality had been the subject of too many of Jewfro's editorials for him to get any sort of grace.

Rachel's mouth tucked into half a smile. She did have a great smile, Kurt decided, if only she knew how to harness it.

"The way life works out, he'll win the lottery, and buy his own harem," she scoffed.

"Die young and syphilitic, you mean." Kurt corrected, hand going to fiddle with the radio.

"That sounds better," Rachel Berry said, adjusting herself more comfortably against the back of her seat, and here Kurt had to wonder how he'd ended up driving with Rachel Berry, the fashion sense of a T-Rex and about twenty percent less tactful, to the Lima Mall. Seriously, how had this become his life?

He'd just planned on giving her a lesson in basic pattern-collor theory, and about mixing sluttiness levels in the same outfit (because she seriously looked like a mental patient in her they-might-as-well-be-underwear skirts and chastity-belt-turned-holiday-sweater tops).

After that, he took the low harmony when his favorite Shania Twain song came on, and let her belt the soprano bits, but when he missed a fantastic spot in the parking lot, he possibly made her get out to stand in it until her could pull around.

She huffed about it when he parked and got out, (maybe scrambling out of the driver's seat in a very dignified manner) but he reminded her that she wouldn't be complaining when they only had to lug their purchases twenty feet from the entrance of the mall. And yes, he assured her, there would be purchases.

* * *

"No, No," she said, as he pulled a shirt off of the rack, and another. She punctuated each retrieval with another no. Kurt chose this moment to go selectively deaf.

"Kurt!" Rachel huffed. "That's not a term of endearment! Didn't your father teach you that no means no?"

Kurt looked at her thoughtfully. "Actually, no, I don't think I ever got that lecture." He pushed the heap of clothes into Rachels arms, and she took the pile grudginly. "He did give me a can of pepper spray, though, so maybe that was a tactful variation?"

Rachel looked at him with wide eyes over the mountain of clothing in her arms until he laughed.

"Don't be so serious, Berry." He said, reaching for even more clothes.

She groaned. "Hey, you try on twenty things to find one that fits perfectly."

"I have a fairly typical build," she said, eyeing the clothes sceptically. "Outfits I try on tend to generally fit."

"Obviously, you don't understand the meaning of _fits perfectly,_" he scoffed. "But I do think we have enough for now." He started to walk away, towards the dressing rooms. It took her a second to snap out of her daze and follow.

"Are you sure I need to try on _all _of these?" she asked in a small voice.

Instead of answering her question, he opened the door into the women's fitting area. The woman attending the fitting rooms started to move towards them with a startled look. "Excuse me, uh, sir."

Kurt waved away her concern with a hand. "I'm not _interested in ladyparts,_" he said, like he was offended at the very suggestion, and then jumped right back in. "Look at my friend; look at her! No, behind the clothes. Clearly she needs help!"

He was pretty sure the next words out of Rachel's mouth would have been "_My dads are gay..._" like she always did when she wasn't getting her way, had the attendant not nodded in a resigned sort of way. In a fit of holiday cheer, he dropped a little nugget of wisdom for her. "You'd look fantastic with choppy layers!"

"Thanks," he heard, belatedly, from the other side of the door.

He pushed her into the big dressing room with the bench, leading her with his hand on her shoulder. "Cowgirl up!" he demanded cheerfully.

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"It _fits, _Kurt," she explained as she came out for the fourteenth time. "And it's kind of slutty, just like you like."

The mother of the freshman trying on hideous leggins and overlarge T-shirt combinations gave him a look. He shrugged at her. "What can I say?" he said with a wink.

_Then, _he gave Rachel Berry his full attention. "Rachel," he said, urgently, "go back in there. Did you even look at yourself?"

Rachel snorted through her nose, exasperated. As a matter of fact, she'd been on autopilot since the third dress, but now that she looked at it... "Kurt, it's not that bad."

"Exactly!" He said, as if this was a matter of _life and death. _"If I give you this fish, you'll have a grand total of one fish." He grabbed her hand and tugged her towards the tri-fold mirror down the short wall of curtained rooms. "However, write this one down in the words of wisdom notebook, Berry, because this? Is a _perfect fit._"

She looked at herself in the mirror, black dress clinging and emphasising a shape she hadn't fully realized she posessed. He twisted her hair up to give her a good view of her visable shoulders, and then let it all down, separating a bit to lay in front of her shoulders.

Rachel wasn't in the habit of worrying about how big her ego seemed (because stars were _sort of _her thing, and if kids laughed at that, it was because they weren't going anywhere, she regularly reminded herself) but after making eye contact with her own reflection for several seconds, she looked away, blushing.

"Now," Kurt said, smiling, "get back in that stall and try on the rest of them. We're teaching you to fish. You might not always have fashionable friends to pull you out of your slumps. There will be a pop quiz."

Rachel groaned, but Kurt noticed that she put on the rest of the dresses (two _hideouses_, one _no way_ that she unfortunately approved of, a _sort-of-maybe-if-you-squint_ and a _yes, sure if you live in sluttville._) with very little fuss, even when he corrected her misassessments with, "Now, Rachel, why is this dress a no, again?"

In the end, she only bought two black dresses and a pair of pumps to go with both, (although an idea was sort of knitting together in Kurt's revolving around a catsuit and lycra, but he hadn't worked out the finer points yet) and certainly didn't complain when she only had to carry them to her hard-won parking space.

Rachel slumped against his seat after tiredly climbed in (like a gentleman, Kurt had tugged her up from the drivers seat, of course) like she'd ran a marathon. "Are we done now?"

He wanted to tease her, but instead, he swatter her hand affectionaly away from his radio. "You are ready to be feasted on by the eyes of McKinley High," he asured her.

"And by extention..." she trailed off.

Kurt almost rolled his eyes, but he was still to happy from his successful mission. "And by extention, one Noah Puckerman."

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**:) Tell me what you think, please. Next stop: Puckleberry! **


	4. why can't we be frenemies?

"Are we going to be frenemies?"

Of all the things Kurt Hummel expected to hear from a girl who had been _waiting _in front of his locker like some kind of stalker, that was not near the top. "Excuse me?"

"You know," she explained, with a hand gesture Kurt supposed was supposed to_ facilitate his understanding_, "because we're both high maintenance and sort of admittedly Divas, and competing for the same body of males, but we've also sort of bonded this past weekend."

"Thus,_ Frenemies_?" Kurt guessed.

Rachel tapped the tip of her own nose. "Because you're sort of catty by nature, I assume that's your default mode of friendship."

"You, Rachel Berry, get most of your socialization from Gossip Girl," Kurt accused, choosing not to take offense at the _catty _comment, because hey, he'd been called worse.

Rachel shrugged as if having books and movies and Broadway plays on DVD instead of friends was perfectly normal. "Being well-read and pop-cultured is important in a budding starlet."

It was early, at least twenty minutes before the bell to start their first period would ring, and Kurt finally noticed that she was wearing one of her hideous sweaters and a micro skirt. "What are you wearing?" he demanded.

Rachel's fingers went up self-consciously to intertwine with ... "Is that an ascot?"

"It's _sophisticated,_" she corrected, and Kurt slapped his face with his palm. (Carefully, of course, so as not to smudge his eyeliner.) "I ... I can't afford to skip class today, and if that dress gets slushied, it needs to be dry-cleaned immediately."

"You put on that dress, and the _football team _will toss the perpetrator into a dumpster full of slushies," Kurt assured her.

Rachel Berry looked less than reassured."Maybe I should just put it on _after _the slushie, if there is one."

Kurt looked at his wristwatch. (It was hideous, to be sure, and normally, Kurt wouldn't have been caught dead in it, but his father had bought it for him for his birthday, mumbling about acceptable fashion accessories, and it was significantly girlier than something his father would wear, even though it wasn't the pearls he'd been hinting out, so he figured they were on the right track.)

"You've got about ten minutes before the team gets here. They're probably choosing flavors _right now,_" Kurt said, tapping his aforementioned watch for emphasis. "Go put it on, and put it on right."

"But--" Rachel started to protest, but then shut her mouth. Instead, she said, "if you're sure."

"Oh, I'm sure," Kurt said, falling in to step with her on the way to her locker. As she pulled it out, folded carefully, and hanging from the top of it in a plastic bag, he thought about their earlier conversation. "Do you _want _to be frenemies?" he asked her, with a snicker, because, seriously, did she honestly think it was okay to set out terms for relationships? Did they have to write a mission statement?

"To be honest," Rachel said, in that matter-of-fact, _I am Rachel Berry _factual way she said everything, even things that should break your heart, like, _people throw frozen corn syrup at me on a daily basis _or _"_I don't think that my friendships are so unnumbered that it would be wise to break them off into sub-genres._"_

It took Kurt a moment to understand. _I don't have enough friends to have fake friends. _

Instead of making fun of her like he would if she was someone else, he swallowed down his laughing retort. "That sounds ... logical."

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"Okay," Rachel said, peering uneasily into Kurt's makeup bag. "I think that if I attempted to do my own eyeshadow ... you'd say something like ..."

Kurt could think of several things he'd say to her in terrible, off-center eye makeup. He snickered at one of them before she finished.

"... _nice practice run, Berry._" The voice she used for him sounded like hers, only squeakier. He snorted again.

"That's probably true. I can see you, looking like a parot. Alright, let's do this. We've only got five minutes."

"Will that be enough time?" Rachel asked, eyes big and even the strange florescent lights in the bathroom were sort-of flattering with her in The Dress.

He raised an eyebrow. "I've already worked a half-dozen miracles on you, Berry."

She lifed her hands in a _no offense _gesture. "Alright, Moses."

She closed her eyes and he stepped in close. "Rule one," he said, reaching for his bag and fishing out his palest liner. "You get darker as you go out from the center. The opposite makes your eyes look closed. And the panda look isn't going to be in for a while."

It was inexplicably strange -- the feeling of her dress against her thighs, and the fact that she was in the girls bathroom, with a gay soprano who she regularly went toe to toe with doing her makeup, explaining the _rules of eye makeup _like they were actual _laws, _his fingers keeping her head steady from her temple, and his other hand putting makeup on her right eyelid... she just wasn't used platonic affection from boys (or girls) who weren't using her... that she almost cried.

But then, of course, she was almost a _professional, _and yes, making herself cry on demand was infinately easier than the opposite, but still doable. Professional.

Finally, he brushed a long thumb across her cheekbone. "Open your eyes and turn around."

She complied, and forgot to breathe. "Is that me?" she asked, and Kurt peered at the same mirror, over her shoulder.

"Somewhere, under the fashionable and cool borrowed elements, your, um, charming self is chilling. Waiting to pounce." He winked saucily."Now get out there and make boys crash into lockers."

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"I thought you were joking," Rachel whispered, so low that her voice hardly carried, which was _quite _unusual, as far as Things That Come From Rachel Berry go.

Kurt surveyed a lanky boy who had literally tri[[ed over his own feet because he was staring at Rachel Berry. "Obviously not," he said, regretting that it wasn't considered couth to sign his creations. Life _so _wasn't fair.

Rachel looked two parts uncomforable, and one part pleased. She opened her mouth, probably to offer him a hand, or ask if he was okay, when she heard a voice that made her whip her head around. "_Berry_?"

Kurt touched her elbow, grinning. "I think I hear my dad calling," he said, and sauntered off, humming beneath his breath.

Rachel turned around slowly, closing her eyes as a protectant from flavored beverages, just in case.

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**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Hope you enjoyed. I've got two finals in the morning, but, hey, you sould all thank my suitemate, who was just sort of ridiculously cruel, for the update. I thought writing some Kurt would help me feel less hurt. It worked. :) Sorry about the lack of the promised pairing in this chapter. ;) Show me some review love and maybe we'll have an update tomorrow night. **


	5. sup, legs?

With her eyes closed just in case, Rachel couldn't _see _his face, which somehow made it even more terrifying.

A beat passed, and there was no mind-numbing splash of a cold beverage against her skin, so Rachel ventured to open one eye.

Puck had one eyebrow raised, giving her a less than subtle once over. And then another. A thrice over? Finally, he greeted her. "Sup, Legs?"

Rachel felt naked, suddenly, more vulnerable now in her new dress than she had under Kurt's critical eye. She almost wished he was here now, to make fun of her, or make fun of Puck, as long as he was filling the air with his smarm, and alleviating her of the obligation to reply.

"Hello, Noah," she tried carefully, resiting the urge to fidget. She relaxed a fraction when she surveyed his empty hands, thumb tucked inside his blue jeans in his usual _yes, I am aware I ooze sex appeal, is there a problem _pose.

She hadn't lied when she spoke to Kurt; she still had feelings for Finn, who was unbelievably dumb at times, but who was never cruel, or even unkind, and who made her insides swim, but there was something unchivalrous about pursuing a boy with a baby on the way. And Puck ... well, looking at her like that, she didn't know why, but during their brief (a massive understatement) affair, there'd been something there, and as a young woman with hormones and no boyfriend to speak of....

If you overlooked that fact that Noah Puckerman was sort of a bully, and that they'd already crashed and burned, and that they were both in love with other people, it was practically problem free. Almost, she thought, a perfect solution.

"Take fashion advice from one of your dads this morning?"

Rachel chose to ignore his jibe, instead of informing him that homosexuals as fashionistas were a stereotype, and actually, now that she thought of it, homophobia and the other unsavory parts of his personality, Puck and her father would probably get along. "You mean because I'm looking extra beautiful today?"

Puck kind of scoffed, but at the same time, Rachel noticed, kind of couldn't pull his eyes away from the hem of her skirt. Clearly she was on track. "Extra ... sparkly," he corrected, gesturing at his own eyes.

"Speaking of hair," she redirected, although he'd said nothing of the sort. "I noticed you've been having trouble with your wig."

Puck looked at her with a wry grin. "What are you talking about, Berry? I'm even more of a stud with a perm."

Rachel _tutted _playfully, as if she's used to flirting and wearing dresses with bare shoulders. She tilted her head and her necklace turned over, flopping onto its cold side, and she hears his voice echo in her head. _We weren't friends before. _

She regains control of herself. Swallows. "Maybe. Its hard, though, to show off your ... studliness if your wig flops off mid preformance."

"That's true," he says, eyes flicking out at a sound behind him. It was just a freshman lugging an instrument case, so he looks back at her. "Do you have a suggestion?"

And Rachel Berry blushes, and then curses herself for not being more adept at controlling her own pulse like she's the master of her tear ducts. "Come over Friday," she says, and starts to tuck one foot under the other, but then she gets a mental image of a tiny Kurt on her left shoulder shouting obscenities at her. The tiny Kurt on her right shoulder is more diplomatic, but what he's shouting amounts to the same: STOP COMMITTING CRIMES AGAINST FASHION! YOU JUST BOUGHT THOSE SHOES.

Puck opened his mouth. "I was going to sit all sad in front of the gas station until someone offered to buy me beer... but, why not?"

It wasn't the enthusiastic, resounding _yes _that she'd hoped for, but it was a yes.

"Alright," she said, trying not to beam. (Kurt had made her practice a smile he called "calm, cool, and coy" in front of her mirror for almost half an hour the night before, but in the heat of the moment, she couldn't really remember the specifics.) "I'll see you then."

She linked her arms behind her back, holding her own elbows in a post that seemed logistically like it could be simultaneously be interpreted as sexy _and _innocent, and he nodded. She started to turn around (just the right amount of _whirl _to let her hair fan out behind her) but Puck was suddenly moving in her periphery.

"Hey Berry?" he said, voice strange.

She raised an eyebrow. _"Puckerman?" _

"Uh." He shrugged out of his Letterman's jacket. "I don't think you'll have any problems today. But maybe you should take this, just in case."

She took it from him, clumsily, and somewhat dumbstruck. "Thank you, Noah."

He rubbed his hand through his Mohawk. "You're looking pretty hot, Berry. It'd be a shame for you to change into your spare librarian sweater."

Rachel almost glowed under his thinly-veiled concern, until he continued.

"Unless you don't have a spare miniskirt," he said, with a lecherous smirk, "and then I'll be needing my jacket back."

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**Gah. Oh, Puck. I didn't do a great job of writing him in this chapter, sorry! The next one will be from his POV, sorty of. It's easier for some reason to be in his head than next to him. Drop me a review, even if its to throw tomatoes and I will be RIDICULOUSLY HAPPY. :) PS Class doesn't start back up until Jan 13, so I foresee chapters coming soon. :)**


	6. like, part of his team now

Rachel '_Going to be the youngest Tony Award Winner ever_' Berry was looking hotter than anyone that insane had any right to, and somehow he'd been snookered out of his jacket.

Puck had no idea when being in glee club had robbed him of his jewels and given him an innie, but apparently it was a problem, because suddenly he was like, caring if Crazy had to scrape herself out from an icicle of slushy. He used to pay to see that junk. Clearly he was losing his edge.

He figured he probably had an hour or two to toss someone in a dumpster before the change was complete and he was overcome with the urge to know not only _what _a cuticle was, but also the proper care of one. He shuddered at the thought and scanned the hallways for a likely twerp.

His problem was that his favorite victim, was like, part of his team now. And his second string of favorites were like, on his other team. He growled from the back of his throat when he realized that somewhere along the way that had started to, like, matter. A nearby freshman rushed past him (he couldn't blame him – he was a scary mother on a chill day, and here he was, growling like some kind of attack dog. He imagined tossing him into the dumpster, and immediately felt better.)

"Hey, Puck."

He didn't even have to look down at the presence at his elbow. He recognized her by her voice, the way she was starting to walk like some kind of awkward duck, even her smell, which was familiar and starting to feel like home.

He might as well have a funeral for his boys, because apparently they'd wilted and fallen off.

"What's up?"

Quinn cut to the chase. "What are you doing Friday?"

Puck almost spluttered. Was this a joke? Or one of those girl-tests? Did he know that he'd literally _just _made plans with Crazy Berry, the school pariah? At that thought, his first reaction was to tell her. Puck didn't pass when girls tested him because he didn't like being tested.

But this was different. This was the mother of his child. "Oh, the usual," he said, and for some reason, it was hard to get the lie out of his mouth -- like spitting out shards of broken glass. It wasn't like he'd never lied to her before (seriously, he'd just lied to her this morning about a book he bought her from the bookstore on Penderwillen.). "You know, looking sad outside the QwikMart until someone offers to buy me beer. What are you thinking?"

"Come babysit with me friday night," she said, voice hopeful.

Maybe not a trap, then. Puck spared a brief thought for Berry. He didn't even entertain thoughts of telling Quinn no. This was his babymama, and Puck might be stupid, but he wasn't so completely braindead that he didn't understand the implications. The _mother _of his _child _wanted to see how he did as a father, and he wasn't about to blow this gig.

"Duh. What time?"

She asked him to pick her up at seven and he resisted the urge to ask the questions that he really wants an answer to. (_Do they pee by themselves? Do they have leashes? How soon can we put them to bed?_)

"I'll be there," he confirmed, and didn't add any frilly retarded stuff like _with bells on _which he was kind of thinking, because, seriously, this meant that _Quinn Fabray _wanted to see if he was capable of getting along with kids, and he _totally was_, because he had, like, a single mom and a sister who occasionally needed a babysitter, and he would never admit to it, because he was sort of hardcore and had a _mohawk, _but sometimes he had to cook dinner and make forts and it was only like, a medium-low suck-level.

Which was to say, yeah. He was pretty good with kids.

She squeezed his hand with her tiny one and flounced off before someone could start any rumors.

Which reminded him. He totally wouldn't feel guilty if he threw Jacob Israel into the dumpster. That guy was such a mouth-breather. His shoulders tensed unconsciously in anticipation, but then the bell rang, and he had to decide whether or not to go to class, and he had to maintain a C-average to stay in glee. (Also, football. Actually, football was his priority, and glee was probably an afterthought.)

He went to class. (For football.)

Afterwards, when he was on his way to his nap-through-math-period he almost bumped into Rachel Berry in the hallway. And she's wearing his jacket. It dwarfs her, and comes right above the hem of her slinky black dress, and she looks sort of ... _cute. _And then, when he's done being disgusted with himself for _actually thinking that _he realized that, in hindsight, it was such a _stupid _idea, and he should have told her it was like, for an emergency, because he had, like, a babymama to impress. Even if she was still dating his best friend.

"Berry," he called out, and ahead of him, he could see her immediately make a quarter turn, before her body straightened out. He blew out a long breath around his teeth.

"Rachel?" he tried, and she did a one-eighty.

"Yes?" she almost cooed. And he almost laughs despite himself, because she's such a _diva, _and next she'll be demanding that he bring her an offering of only _green _skittles.

"About Friday," he fumbles, but then he has to remember that he's, like, the stud of the year. (Speaks it into reality, he thinks, because he always feels surest and studliest and gets the most phone numbers after he reminds himself of the facts of life.) "Something came up--" he says, and her face starts to fall, and then stiffens. "You mind if we hang early Friday?"

"Oh." Like that wasn't what she expected. (Reminds him of the time she saw him with her grape slushie in hand and winced, bracing herself for the shock.) "Oh. Um, sure."

Which is how Noah Puckerman got to have his cake, and eat it too, which sounded gay until you realized that was, like, a metaphor for getting to have Hot Jew cake and Sexy Blond cake, too. Stud of the year.

"You want a ride home, Friday?"

Crazy fiddled with the hem of her skirt, and didn't say anything for a few seconds, and jeez, was she formulating a speech, or what? Eventually, she opened her mouth, and seriously, he was bracing himself for a lecture because Rachel Berry doesn't _waste time _not talking, she uses it to plan her _next_ bout of talking.

But then she said, "That would be lovely, Noah."

And then Puck was the one scurrying away before someone could start rumors.

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**Bah. Humbug. :) Merry Christmas, everybody, if I don't update before then. :)**


	7. the sexual superhighway

**Sorry about the wait; but I did write a Puckish oneshot with a side of Kurt, _Lid Wide Shut _if you want to check it out****. :)**

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Every time he passed her in the hallways (Rachel, not his baby mama, or Santana, who seriously, always wanted him. He was such a stud. If he had one more girl drooling over him, he'd have to start keeping a photo album in his wallet to keep them all straight.) guys were giving her sideways glances and like, giving little waves.

And even though Puck clearly did not care, because, hello, he got to much action to wish sexual repression on anyone (see what a good guy he was?) but really, part of him was a tiny bit irritated. Seriously, she was still Rachel Berry, school pariah. Half of them had given (or funded, or fantasized about) her a slushy facial, and certainly none of the others had ever done anything to stop it.

And of course, it would be today, with her looking sort-of kind-of hot and in his jacket -- seriously, from the back, it looked like that was all she was wearing, her long legs (and they did seem ridiculously long for her being practically a midget) poking out for about a mile before they ended in her six inch heels, that she'd be in his sight all day.

And really, Puck could not stress this enough to himself: he did_ not care. _His jaw was locking and teeth were on edge because of a _preexisting medical condition._

At Glee practice, when Mr. Shue walked in, he was already holding a hat he'd used once to pair them up, to like, give them some sense of team spirit, or _get them out of their boxes _like they were new appliances (or some kind of gay metaphor like that) and Puck groaned. He wasn't sure what he wanted (or didn't want) to happen, but he knew that he had a feeling.

Rachel went to sit next to Kurt, and when she tried to tug down the hem of her dress, he slapped her hand away.

Puck almost laughed. Even the queer wanted Rachel Berry to show more leg. He couldn't blame him; if there were a pair of legs to make a man hang a U-turn on the sexual superhighway, they probably belonged to her.

Mr. Shue cleared his throat, and he realized he was staring at the aforementioned pair. He felt a little less like a middle school dweeb when he looked up to see Mike still looking.

They all watched as Mr. Shue rapidly pulled out six of their slips and looked at them. He frowned, and tossed them all back in.

"What about,_ the fates have spoken_, Mr. Shue?" Finn teased. Rachel and Kurt looked over at him at the same time, like they were both so aware of him, all the time.

"The fates don't know what they're talking about when it comes to group dynamics," he muttered, shaking the hat vigorously, and pulling out another six slips, reading off their names as he went. "Alright. Rachel, Santana, Mike, Finn, Artie, Matt."

Before Mr. Shue could explain, Puck's brain hit an idea like a car crashing into a bank, and chimed up from the back of the room. "Alright -- I nominate myself as team captain, and my team's got dibs on Shirts."

Laughing, Matt and Mike grabbed the hems of their shirts. Santana shoved Matt with a smirk, the way she touched everybody (too much sex appeal like a pheromone handprint) but she looked at Puck while she did it, and skanky and sassy. She might as well have been licking her lips.

Dude. Puck was such a babe magnet; he didn't know how he'd ever thought something like glee could change the kind of status his guns had brought him. He patted them in appreciation under the guise of smoothing over his shirt.

And then he saw _Rachel Berry _looking like she was seriously contemplating it, and Shue butted into his fantasy of getting all three of the girls shirtless (and then of course, realized that the non-friendship they had was just a cover for their hot lesbian lust towards another, and then they would got into an argument over who was the best kisser and they'd need an unbiased judge ... Puck had a pretty good imagination) by like, actually explaining what the teams were for. Sometimes Puck hated him.

(They were both going to do the same song and inventing their own choreography for it, he explains as they start to move into their groups, and they'd adopt the best dance for sectionals, because Mr. Shue liked to _shake things up _because he was all into, like, team loyalty or something dumb like that and always trying to get them to _form new connections_. Probably had to change the groups because the first time the hat had given him an arrangement that actually _worked._)

"What's the song?" Kurt asked, looking at his fingernails instead of Mr. Shue.

"A song about loneliness and being an outsider, and makeup," Mr. Shue explained with a smile, "by a tiny little band with seventies hair called--"

"--Elenor Rigby." Puck guessed, only, he was pretty sure, and it came out confident. He hadn't meant too, because he wasn't Rachel -- every moment of his life wasn't a competition of musical one-upmanship.

Mr. Shue made a gunpoint gesture at him and fired, grinning. "Elenor Rigby."

And then the room erupted into chattering, and from across it, Rachel is looking at him all big-eyed like she's proud he knows a classic song. He rolls his eyes.

"So," he said, in a weird moment of taking charge. (He might as well, because Tina's too shy to take charge of _anything _and Brittany may or may not know how to tie her own shoes and if he waits for Mercedes or Kurt to start them off they'll either end up doing to ghetto or the gay version, and he _really _likes this song, and he had a babymama to impress.)

And what he's thinking is _seriously, Shue's not going to give me any guys to cover my back? He knows Hummel doesn't even count, _but what he says is, "Let's make them cry for their mommies."

And Mercedes laughs and nods, even though just a second ago he heard her use the phrase _another white-guy song, _like they're all oppressing her by not making every song something off the radio during Black History Month.

"Alright," he says, and he can sort of hear Rachel's voice from across the room, but kind-of quietly, like she was _trying _to whisper, but couldn't get the hang of it, which was so like her. "They've got Berry, and Santana, and Mike, so between Rachel's robot showbiz brain and their collective moves," Puck shrugged, and the rest of his group was looking at him like he was certifiable, but he kept soldiering on, in part because Quinn's mouth was hanging open like she'd never have expcted him to be doing _this _(whatever it was he was doing) and, well, doing what he'd been doing up until this point hadn't worked so much in his favor, so he might as well shake things up. "But they also have Frankenteen, and -- no offense, Chang -- Artie, to be counterproductive."

Quinn and Tina, who Puck had never expected to have anything in common, both frowned and slowly brightened simultaneously.

"That's true," Quinn said finally, with an appraising look at him.

Hummel smirked like he knew something he didn't. Puck stared at him hard, to remind him who had the ability to toss who in the trash (just because he hadn't _exercised _this ability in the last few weeks didn't mean his muscles had atrophied -- he just hadn't been in the mood) and he didn't stop.

Finally, when it was getting a bit awkward, and they could kind of hear Rachel's wolf-in-sheep's-clothing-but-not-wearing-them-convincingly megaphone voice trying to be quiet (_"The mood of this song, of course, would make jazz hands entirely inappropriate, but I feel they could be utelized nicely for irony"_) and he was still staring at Hummel and everyone else in their group was staring at _him, _Hummel pened his mouth with the final verdict, after a slow once over.

"Gleek."

* * *

**Reviews make me super-duper happy, just FYI. **

**PS HOLY FRIGGEN CRAP A HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN PEOPLE GET AN EMAIL WHEN I UPDATE THAT STORY -- THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO IS A PART OF THAT NUMBER. :) Ps. you should say hi. :)**


	8. little Tina x

On Tuesday, Kurt Hummel realizes that he's sort of a fairy godmother.

At least, this week, he kind of fancied himself one. He was on a roll.

First, there was Rachel, who was looking the epitome of hot today, and who was on the receiving end of about a dozen smoldering looks from the resident glee-neanderthal an hour, (and seriously, how could she have ever doubted his prowess?) but then, when Puck is having to talk Mercedes out of trying to sneak in vocal runs, because, seriously, _The Beatles_, Kurt doesn't want to get involved, so he makes small talk with Tina, instead.

And, okay, maybe he's sort-of also fishing for gossip, but that's just out of habit.

He's not even giving her a hundred percent of his attention, because he also needs to keep his finger on the Rachel-Puck pulse, and yes, maybe he's a little aware of Finn, until his gossip radar goes off.

"Come again?"

Tina frowns. "I f-faked my s-stutter. Sorry, habit."

"Which is why Artie is avoiding you?" he clarified. How out of the loop had he been? There was not much that made Kurt feel more vulnerable than being behind of the McKinley news. It was why he read Jacob's blog. (He was frequently wrong, but sometimes he hit the nail on the head. He had long-standing money on the validity of Coach Sylvester being a man.)

Tina nodded.

Kurt kind of huffed, because, seriously?

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Kurt had a meeting with Puck about their choreography, because for all of his stand-up-and-take-charge instincts, he doesn't know much about actually planning moves.

Kurt draws him a diagram on notecards as an example. "Like a football play," he explains, making a little arrow from the x labeled "Tina" to a space to the left.

Puck blinked at him. "Hummel," he says, like it physically hurts him to address him by name, "you're like, almost kind of cool."

Kurt's been tossed into too many dumpsters to let him off easy. "For a homo?"

Puck lifts both hands. "Sure," he says, kind of smirking, and Kurt storms off, half becausePuck has _no class _and absolutely no discretion when it comes to olive branches, and half because he had other things to do, and liked to end conversations with a touch of the dramatic.

When he sees Rachel, he tells her to wear a pair of jeans and the grey T-shirt he demanded she purchase on Thursday, and then makes small talk, and while her guard is down, he asks, ever so casually, "How's the choreography coming?"

She laughs. "It's like herding cats. I almost miss Mrs. Shue's magic fixes."

"Oh yeah, you guys have Santana," he says, in a mock-pitying way, like she's the problem, and Rachel Berry opens her big mouth to correct him, (_Actually, I would consider Finn's dancing and Artie's rolling more challenging but as I am Rachel Berry, both of them just demand I expand my planning horizons... _one of these days he's going to seriously call her exact monologue before she delivers it and mouth it behind her. He's just to good at imagining Rachel Berry speeches.) but then, miraculously, she recognizes that he's joking.

"I know, poor thing. You can't help being born with two left feet, though, so we have her swaying while we have Finn twirl distractingly in front of her. With any luck, no one will notice."

He favors her with a smile, and then tells her about what she'll be wearing Friday afternoon.

She bites her lip and says "um," several times, like all the sudden she'd brain-damaged, because that's what it takes to make her forget all of those five-dollar scrabble words she likes to toss around.

He leaves no room for arguments.

He's an artist at work.

* * *

On Thursday, Rachel Berry looks hot, in a normal kind of way, and Kurt finally gets a chance to corner Artie after Glee.

"Arthur Abrams," he says, as authoritatively as he can. (He isn't sure, but he thinks he's got a eighty percent chance of Artie's full name being Arthur, between that and Arturo and Artemis, and whatever other names that start in 'Art'.)

Artie turns around, so he figures he's in the clear.

"Yes, Kurticus Hummel?" he says, in that intense voice her has that makes everything sound so grave. It might have something to do with the wheelchair.

"Tina," is all Kurt says, and a dark cloud floats across Artie's face.

"I don't want to hear anything about it, but I do want to say this."

Artie hasn't wheeled away, so he figures he hasn't blown his chance yet. "No, she doesn't have a stutter, but being _so _shy that she literally _chnged _her speech patterns for four _years? _That sounds like a serious problem to me."

Kurt strides away as fast and dramatically as his moderately short legs will allow him to, and he's glad that he's a dramatic genius, because he had the foresight to unbutton his second-favorite jacket so it can billow on the way out.

After Glee, he hears Artie ask if they can _maybe talk outside?_

How did these people ever run their lives without him?

* * *

Friday morning, Kurt settles in for a good show.

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**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, or favorite, or added this story to your alerts. Seriously, I am so beyond flattered. Sorry this chapter is so weird, and took so long, but I decided I'd made a mistake by setting the last few chapters on Monday, so I decidedand then for some reason it was super hard to write, especially after I'd decided to do a brief interlude to reunite Stutters and Wheels ;). I may backtrack a bit in the next few. I don't know for sure. **

**I'll probably write a one-shot about Kurt or Puck before I post the next chapter, either way. Thanks for all the love, guys. :)**


	9. the condition of my soul

**Thank you everyone for your patience, reviews, and traffic. Sorry this chapter took so long. I'm just under a lot of stress because of school mishmash. Anyways, onward. I hope you enjoy. :) It's sort of long; but I figured I owed you for the wait. :)**

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Between working on the Hair / Crazy in Love mash up (which Rachel was sort of outraged about, because, come _on, _Mr. Shue's lack of confidence was quite demoralizing.) and choreographing the Eleanor Rigby dance for their team, and of course, Rachel Berry's numerous extra curricular activities, she almost forgot about the deaf glee club coming to perform.

_Almost _because Rachel Berry was never caught unawares; not about performances. She'd been slaving at the choreography for the song, and they'd been meeting in Artie's house when they couldn't all find time after school to meet in the band room, because the dance had to be on their own time, while they worked on Hair during glee practice.

Friday morning before school, Rachel showed up early for school and waited in the faculty parking lot for Mr. Shuester to show up and appealed to his better nature and higher judgement in an attempt to stall the car crash that would be the afternoon's performance.

"I'm sorry Rachel," he said in that resigned voice he used when he was tired of arguing with her but wouldn't give in like anyone else would. She was tired of hearing that tone, to be honest.

"You realize that the Glee club will look even more ridiculous with this routine than we would anywhere else, because we'll be preforming for the _deaf._"

"Rachel! Don't be discrim--"

"Do _not _say that," Rachel cut him off, thinking of the ACLU, but trying not to bring it up, as Kurt had mentioned was kind of her MO, and that it was maybe getting old. "Hairography is to distract from a lack of vocal talent," she continued, and then held up one finger. "Firstly, it's not discriminatory to say that it would be stupid to distract a deaf choir from our vocals, which, two, don't need to be distracted from. Three, you know how a deaf choir _gets _a performance?"

Mr. Shuester was just kind of gaping at her, and she was thinking she might win this one, as she held up her forth finger and delievered the clencher. "That's right, _reading lips_."

He blinked as the bomb dropped. Rachel felt victory swell in her chest, but went for the kill anyway. "That's right. If we do the Hairography number, we might as well pop in a CD."

"Rachel, I'm sorry, but my hands are tied. The only other numbers we've been practicing are the numbers to Eleanor Rigby, and I haven't even seen those yet. Plus, they aren't one cohesive number."

Rachel was quite proud of her number, and the clock was ticking already; in ten minutes the bell would ring to start the day, so she swallowed her pride (she'd have to mix her number with the other group's, and, just, no. But ... she was learning to be a team member. Sort of.) and assured him she'd come up with a solution.

"When Finn, Quinn, Brittany, Kurt and I have you for Spanish, Puck has a math class he never goes to anyway, and Artie is in Jazz band. Write us passes -- I don't know where Mike and Matt are, but we can round them up, and Santana ... and during lunch, and, I don't know, Mr. Shue, but I'll get us a cohesive number."

"I would feel much more confident..." Mr Shue mumbled, pulling at the hem of his shirt.

But Rachel knew she'd won, now she just had to ... put her money where her mouth was. 'I won't let you down, Mr. Shue!" she called over her shoulder, and was dialing Kurt before she'd made it to the main building. "Kurt! Can you start, like, a phone tree?"

"_Does Madonna rock funnels?_ Don't answer that. What are we spreading?"

"Tell Mercedes, Tina and Artie to go see Mr. Shue for passes after first period. We're spending third in an _emergency meeting_."

In a shameful low point in Rachel's high school career, she made a quick trip into the bathroom to fix her hair before her big debut.

* * *

She came flailing into his first period class like some kind of psycho, just unstrapped from her padded room and released on the general public.

"Uh, Berry? What are you doing?"

She spun on her heel, and her hands flew to her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes. "Oh, Noah! How are you holding up?"

He was about to give her some kind of biting response letting her know what the thought about her insanity, but she cut him off. "Oh, it's okay! We'll be on our way to see him, soon."

"Mrs. Tully! I'm so sorry to disrupt your class, but I must take Noah with me." She leaned in close to her, blinking currently unshed tears out of her eyes until they fell down her face. "Our spiritual leader is deathly ill, and we must go see him."

Mrs. Tully, a woman who was probably ninety nine years old, at least, raised one white eyebrow.

"We're Jewish, you see," Rachel elaborated, and Puck was mostly thinking _what? _

"Shalom," he said, at her doubtful look.

Jewfro popped up from the back of the room. "Rabbi's sick?"

Rachel manfully refused to look at Jewfro. Puck had to really work it to not crack up. Mrs. Tully looked at Rachel, who, admittedly, was not in her class, and then Noah Puckerman, who she would probably love to not have in her class, and back to Jacob, the worlds biggest mouthbreather. "Why is this ..." She trailed off. Puck assumed she meant to ask why this was important, but that would seem heartless.

"So urgent? Because visiting hours for his wing of the hospital are only two hours long -- we'd be back by lunch time."

She hesitated again (probably imagining the world where her classroom was filled with _Rachel Berry_s and had no _Noah Puckermans _like all teacher wished they lived it) before nodding hesitantly. "Do you need a pass, too?"

Rachel nodded. "That would be perfect! Of course, the condition of my soul is of such tantamount importance that I was going to go anyways, but a pass would be _lovely._"

Puck thought she was pushing it, but Mrs. Tully started writing. "I'm only writing them until lunch," she said, throwing a suspicious look at Noah alone. Like he was the problem child. Please. Obviously Berry was full of evil plans and _lies. _

"Thank you so much for your generosity," Rachel said, and Puck was sort-of surprised that Rachel didn't curtsy.

* * *

"What was that?" Puck asked her, as soon as they were out of earshot. Passes in hand, she was leading him down the hallway.

Rachel gave a pointed look at Jacob, who was tagging behind. "Hey Jacob..." she started, to pat away the tears drying on her face.

"Get lost," Puck said, to sum up the upcoming Berry speech.

She started anyways. "To be honest, Rabbi Rozenkrantz isn't that sick. In fact, you might even say that he ... isn't. Puck and I have some very important business to attend to, though, and we'd really appreciate it if you'd --"

"--get lost," Puck finished for her, again. She gave him a glare.

He was only trying to help.

"Jacob, I'm sorry we mislead you, but you've found yourself with a few free periods, and we'd really appreciate if you didn't..."

"Post you and Puckerman's antics on my blog?" he suggested innocently, "Or did you mean go tell Mrs. Tully about your _exemplary_ behavior?"

"A free period!" Rachel Berry said desperately, voice going squeaky. "Do you want to give that up?"

He shrugged. "Not particularly, but you'll have to make a better offer."

Watching Rachel squirm was all well and good, but he was kind of tired of the little weirdo. "Every had a patriotic wedgie?" he asked him, cracking his knuckles. "Consider that my _better offer. _Now go make use of that pass before you spend your unexpected holiday pinned in the dumpster."

When Jacob had scampered off, Rachel just kept _looking_ at him.

"Don't make puppy eyes at me. I haven't even said yes to whatever it is you want, Berry. Unless you need sexual favors. I guess that's okay to assume about."

That seemed to remind her of whatever kind of crazy mission she was on. "We have to get to the glee room. Everyone else will get there during third period, but we have to combine our dances."

"How did I know you weren't going to need sexual favors?" Puck sighed.

"Because this is the real world, and not the depraved fantasy life you have in your head."

Puck gave her a doubtful look.

"I got you out of class," she reminded him.

"Let's do this, then. Explain to me why on the way."


	10. hot for his game plan

Rachel Berry was hot for his game plan.

Of all the seduction techniques Noah Puckerman had ever tried, and let's be real, he's tried them all, he never would have expected showing a girl-shaped inferno of raw _crazy _to be turned on by a few sheets of paper.

(If he knew what flow charts were, Puck would have figured by now that they were definite ticket into Rachel Berry's pants.)

"Puck," she gasped, tracing his diagram with her fingers, and he could see that in her head she was seeing the choreography his group had worked out.

"Yeees?" He drew out.

"This is ... very clever," she said, again. She was some kind of broken record.

"What can I say?" he asked, gesturing expansively, "I'm pretty awesome."

He neglected to mention that the dance-as-football-play had actually been Kurt's idea. What would Hummel care, anyway? It's not like they were actually friends.

"Alright," Rachel said, sitting down and scrambling to get a pen out of her suitcase-bag. "This into, actually is very similar to mine, and if I didn't know for a fact that you'd created most of this on your own, I would almost suspect--"

"Hold it right there, Crazy," he said, and he just _knew _he'd have a headache by the end of the day, "what do you mean, _know for a fact?_"

Rachel's hand flew to her mouth. "I just meant that ..." she paused, stalling, as if trying to think of a better story. She must not have, because her shoulder slumped down, and she sounded honest (but not apologetic) when she said, "well, Kurt's spying for me, of course."

Of course he was.

"Dude, that's pretty creepily intense. Like, it's just glee club."

At Rachel's strangled gasp, Puck knew he's said something wrong. "I didn't mean to call you creepy, Berry," he said indulgently, but she made a dismissive gesture.

"I don't care about that; I am _quite _aware that I can be ... slightly more intense than most people--" Puck snorted; and the sun was _kind of_ bright -- "but I know that my drive to succeed will allow me to feel superior in the long run, when I've met my goals, and they..." she trailed off, tangibly shaking her head. "Anyways, _Noah, _are you ready to talk dance steps?"

* * *

"Noah, it is _imperitive _that you concentrate."

Puck grunted in response, from the floor. "From the top?" he guessed.

"From the top," she confirmed.

Mostly Puck was letting her have her way, because he was sort of amused (she kept doing all of the parts by herself, like she was building the scene full of dancing Rachels in her head) and she _had _actually gotten him out of class. And a little bit because she was Rachel Berry, and she'd been planning choreography since she was practically three days old, if you believed her.

"I am _quite impressed,_" she said, leaning down in a way that simultaneously gave him a view of her chest and made him realize that she was wearing a perfectly normal T-shirt, with a perfectly normal V-neck. Weird. "You've obviously put a lot of thought into this routine, and while I'm aware that you were part of a _team, _I know you did most of the planning for it, and while I wouldn't personally have chosen many of the moves..." (Puck thought she was probably talking about the part of his diagram that said "shimmy here" over the little Tina x that he couldn't convince her was a joke, but whatever.)

"Obviously," he snorted.

Rachel looked confused, as if she hadn't just basically cut out almost his entire dance.

"Forget it,"he said, starting to climb to his feet. "From the top?"

She nodded. "If you don't mind."

* * *

She actually had a really keen eye for this kind of thing. Within half an hour she'd pretty expertly broken down both of their teams dances into one cohesive number, for the most part, which was to say that she inserted about thirty percent of Puck's dance into hers, and then spent twenty minutes trying to shave away at hers, taking out a few moves at a time. He was actually surprised that she'd kept that much of his. It just didn't seem like her.

"Hey Berry," he said, while he was taking a break.

"Yes?" She was doing no such thing, because she was a dancing robot. Instead, she was utilizing _his _break to mark the floor with tape. ("Normally, I'd embarrassed at the use of placement markers, but I think we can use them with our dignity intact on account of how little time we'll have to prepare for this.")

"Did you seriously say _the condition of my soul _to Tully?"

Rachel looked up at him with a smirk. "Do you think I over-acted my role?"

And of course, she said things like _over-acted my role _like that was totally normal. If she wasn't so crazy, he'd almost think it was endearing. "You're not a great liar," he admitted, and then snorted. "The condition of my soul. Heh."

"Shut up," she said, huffing playfully. "I had very little warning, yet my performance was still compelling and more importantly effective."

"You did get me out of class," he said feeling generous because of the fact. He sipped on a bottle of water from the reservoir under the glee room desk.

"Remember that time?" she said, slyly. She sounded _normal_. She _looked_ normal. Who _was _this girl?

"That was a good time," he said, stretching out his legs and getting comfortable.

"Oh no you don't."

She didn't even have to say it. She extended her hand down to him.

He wouldn't trust the midget to hoist him up, but it was a nice gesture anyways, so he took it, and proceeded to pop up with just the muscles in his thighs, barely applying any pressure to her hand.

She didn't let go.

"Berry," he said, amused, "I'm going to need that back for all of your frilly dance moves. And jazz hands."

She dropped it slowly. "It's not that great of a hand, anyway," she said dismissively.

"Wait a second, now. I'll have you know that I have very cu -- _attractive_ hands," and then added, because of his near miss, "_Manly_ hands. I've heard them described as _rugged. _And sexy."

Rachel snickered. For a second, Puck's eyes traced the line of her jaw, down to her neck, down... and then remembered, like a bucket of ice water thrown on his face: he was _babysitting with his babymama tonight. _"Anyways. From the top?"

"No, not until they get here. Third period is about to start." She went to sit on the piano, putting her palms flat behind her and hopping backwards to land between them.

Andshe was right, because she was Rachel-freaking-Berry, and maybe she was a little psychic, but the bell rang to announce the end of second. As the door opened for the other gleeks to start trickling in, he gave her one last soft look, before he didn't have the chance. He laughed under his breath again.

"The condition of your soul. Ha."

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**I'm sorry to everyone for the beastly wait. I drew out the Puck-Rachel alone time to make up for it. Hope it was somewhat worth it. Kisses to everyone who has reviewed or alerted or favorited this story, but an extra thanks to Hips, whom this chapter is dedicated to for her sweet and helpful comments, and to any repeat reviewer. **

**PS Guys, coming up: a long one-shot (maybe two-shot) that's kind of crackficcy in a completely real way. I'm pretty excited about it, and it maybe starts with a Kurt/Rachel kiss. ;)**


	11. go team or something

**Sorry for the wait -- I got distracted by my new story, _when we were daisies, _which, yes, starts with a Rachel/Kurt kiss. Also, sorry about this chapter; it feels awkward and weird -- writing a huge group scene is really hard to do wihtout telling too much/little and knowing which is which. :P Anyway. On with the show. **

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The room was a cacophony of excited chatter, despite the way Rachel kept trying to shush them.

"_Yo_!" Puck finally shouted, voice booming, "everybody shut up so Berry can explain what's going on."

The practice room was instantly silent.

"As you all know," Rachel started tentatively, as if she was sort of expecting the room to erupt back into more noise, "we're going to be preforming for a school for the deaf, today, and I've managed to convince Mr. Shue that the Hair mash up would be an absolute disaster."

"I'm sorry I ever called you annoying, Rachel," Artie announced, almost instantly. He proceeded on, thoughtfully. "I was thinking of faking paralysis of my arms as well during glee practice, or perhaps a seizure."

Rachel could never tell if Artie was joking or not. She decided she'd take what she could get. "Uh, thanks, Artie."

Puck interrupted. "Thanks man, but let's leave faking seizures as plan B."

"What's plan A?" Tina asked, from the arm of Artie's chair.

"We're going to do Eleanor Rigby -- basically a mash up of both of the dances," Rachel explained, gesturing expansively. They all seemed to eye her warily. Puck noticed that it was only the girls, minus Tina, who looked annoyed. Nevertheless, under her eyes, she soldiered on like she always did, taking charge even if it made her no friends. "Noah and I have spent the last three hours combining them into one number--"

"Aw hell naw," Mercedes burst out. "We _know_ what that means."

Rachel coloured. "I'll have you know, that I tried extremely hard to--" she said, voice sounding wounded at first, and then hardening. It reminded Puck of Quinn, actually, and for the second time in as many minutes, he found himself interrupting Rachel.

"Actually, Mercedes, she used _your _finale, and she cut out _her _solo for Tina's when they were in the same place."

Mercedes bristled, and Kurt moved over to her to put a restraining hand on her waist. "Wow, Rachel," he said, smiling at her, "next thing you know, you're going to be, like, a team player."

Rachel smiled back at him in relief.

"It's a shame though," he mused, "I make such an attractive blond."

"In a fetish kind of way," Finn added.

Everyone turned to look at him. Quinn was wearing that _yes he's an idiot but he's my idiot _exasperated look. It reminded Puck that he used to feel the same way, before Finn became _that guy _that had literally _everything Puck ever wanted, _including _his baby, _and instead started feeling annoyed at him all the time.

"... _anyways,_" Puck drawled. "Let's get crackin'. We've got some deaf kids to impress; if anybody's got any vitamin D, I'd pop 'em."

"We will be doing no such thing! And I'm sure the _'deaf kids' _would not appreciate your tone, Noah," Rachel said, not realizing what she'd said until the room started laughing. Even Santana cracked a smile. Rachel blushed even harder.

Puck had done enough running interference between Rachel Berry and the rest of the world this week to last the rest of his high school career. He wasn't about to jump in one more time unless they tied her up and were ready to burn her at the stake, and even then, he would wait until someone actually struck a match, he told himself.

Surprisingly, it was Mike who stepped forward, half-grinning. "Alright, Rachel, where do you want us?"

---

Rachel was kind of a taskmaster. It almost made Puck feel sorry for her team.

"Finn, I want you to watch Mike _very closely. _I want him to feel like his privacy is invaded on account of _how creepily you are staring._" Rachel had this unholy gleam in her eyes. It was sort of scary. Puck imagined that during Berry's practices, Finn had gotten off easily, because of how she obviously wanted to jump his bones. If this practice was anything to go by, apparently nothing could be farther from the truth. Of course, anyone would be frustrated with Finn after the fourth right-left mix-up in less than half an hour.

It didn't help everyone else's moods that they just kept _taking it from the top, _and when they asked for "twenty seconds to breath," Rachel pulled out her iPod's stopwatch and stared intently for twenty seconds.

To be fair, they were learning their combined dance faster than any they'd ever done under the leadership of Mr. Shuester. To be extra-fair, Mr. Shue had never threatened to kill himself in an extremely dramatic manner and haunt them singing show tunes until their dying days.

... Not that Rachel had, either, but she had this _look _in her eyes, and Puck kept expecting it.

Mike was practically vibrating with excitement, (and probably he was a little creeped out because, yeah, Finn was the kind of guy that took everything at face value and kept looking at his legs. _"Only during the number, Finn."_) like Rachel was his dancing soul mate, and Kurt kept Mercedes from tearing off Rachel's face every time she _from the top_ped, and all in all, no one killed each other.

Puck would call it a success. Rachel was pulling at her hair like a crazy person.

"Everybody take a five minute break," Puck said, because you can't just ride people hard and put them away wet. The flopped where they were, and broke into chatter. It seemed mostly friendly, a little excited, but Puck thought that maybe he heard a few _tyrants _and a _bossypants. _He couldn't actually blame them.

"Stop it," Kurt snapped, moving towards her, and grabbing both of her hands with his own. He lowered his voice, and turned her so her back was to the rest of the club. Puck tried not to listen,l or to watch out of the corner of his eyes, but he wasn't well know for his self-control. "You're going to go prematurely bald, and then how will you distract from your horrible personality?"

Rachel smiled at him gratefully, like he hadn't just insulted her. "I just can't make it work," she admitted, hands itching to tuck her hair behind her ears, or to comb through the bottoms of her curls, or anything to keep them busy, really.

"You're being stupid," he informed her, because the little queer didn't do subtle. "It looks great. It's going to look great. No -- don't say anything. Close your eyes."

Rachel, in a strange fit of submission, did.

"Imagine," he said, "there are fourteen deaf kids sitting in these seats, and we're all wearing itty-bitty pants, making fools of ourselves, singing pointed away from them and ... actually, on second thought, I really like the itty bitty pants, they're great, but the rest of it makes us look stupid."

"You're right, Kurt. This is going to be great. One more time, guys, I promise, and then we can all get back to class until glee."

"There's my girl," he confirmed, subtly reaching out and tugging her neckline down. "Alright, everybody. One more time."

The room groaned collectively.

At least they were sort of bonding in their misery. Go team. Or something.


	12. even people who can hear

**I am seriously being a failure with tense. :( Also, sorry, short chapter, but the next will probably be extra long. **

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"Guys. I am seriously impressed. This is what I like to see."

Rachel couldn't help but spare a stray thought that he hadn't appreciated the work they'd put into _Push It. _(On second thought ... not her best work.) "So can we preform it for the Haverbrook glee club?"

Mr. Shue shuffled around. Rachel rolled her eyes. "Mr. Shue?"

He wrung his hands, "Yes, Rachel. You did a very good job. I'm impressed."

She glanced back at the rest of them, watching expectantly. "We _all_ worked really hard on it, Mr. Shue."

When they do the number again, heads poised most of the time for maximum lip-visibility, at least half of them facing the audience at all times, the Haverbrook kids keep tugging at each other's elbows, gesturing subtly. Rachel would be confused, if she wasn't so completely engrossed in preforming.

They do their jazz hands at the end, smiling strangely. "Rach," Mike whispers from behind her, "they, like, talked through the whole song."

"I know," she said through a tight smile. "The show must go on."

Mike shrugged, and smiled back at the deaf glee club. "Thank you, thank you."

---

They sing John Lennon's _Imagine, _which Rachel or Kurt would call "poignant and touching," because they're both chicks, with them being deaf and the content of the song, and even the fact that their instructor gives them visual clues while he plays, and when Mercedes starts to sing under her breath, Matt puts his arm around her shoulder, squeezing the one farthest from him in a silent reminder to be a good audience.

Rachel doesn't blame her. They're all singers. She's just glad it wasn't _her; _she somehow doubted that she'd be saved from the snickers of the rest of the group with a physical gesture.

At the end, Puck starts to clap, and Matt elbows him in the back of the neck from behind.

"Audience police," he mumbled, and Matt elbows him a second time. "Fine, I'll do gay hands."

"Thank you, so much for inviting us here today," the lead singer says, signing along when he speaks. "We had planned on singing another song, but then, when we got here..."

He looked around, smiling shyly at them, and sharing a _look _with the rest of his own glee club. "Well, we figured this song was appropriate -- even people that can hear like the Beatles, you know?"

They all laughed, and then hand-shimmied, just to be clear. Kurt dabbed at his eyes.

---

"You comin', Berry?" he said, catching up with her on her way out of the glee club door. She wasn't headed towards the parking lot, fishing her phone out of her bag.

"Oh, Noah!" she said, feigning surprise. "I'd completely forgotten about our excursion!"

She hadn't, but she'd half-assumed he would "forget" about it. She'd been prepared to walk home, if Kurt wasn't willing to drop her off.

Puck shrugged. "If you've made other plans..."

"No," Rachel said, fingers going up to worry the neckline of her v-neck, "I simply had a momentary lapse of brain function."

He rolled his eyes, taking her bag from her (she'd brought an actually backpack at Kurt's absolute insistence that her trolly-bag made her look like a "complete ninny.") and slinging it over his shoulder casually. "I'm parked over here," he said, pointing. "The red one."

Rachel tried not to smile. "I know." She didn't add _we made out in it twice during our week-long relationship, _but she thought it was probably hanging in the hair in front of them.

"Right," he said, getting in. She started to walk around, and he leaned over and popped open her door. "Watch your step."

When she starts to describe the turns he's going to take to get to her house, he cuts her off the same way. "I know, Berry, we've made out there at least six times."

Rachel turned red, fiddling with her frayed seatbelt. "That's true," she finally observed neutrally, because, well, they had.


End file.
